Here is the scene:
London Bridge, freezing cold wind, not enough layers, waiting for a bus. Its 8.04 in the evening.
A woman is sitting in the bus shelter with a man standing over her. He is wearing dark sunglasses, the grey glare from the bleak sky must be over powering. She is wearing a sequinned glittery jack that is not done up. Why is it not done up?
He is talking none stop at her. She barely looks at him, does not engage, looks all around but at him. His mouth is barely 2 centimetres from her face. The words barely audible over the biting wind.
She looks uncomfortable. Is it the wind? Him? both? Impossible to tell, but you find the imagination tries to find a story. Why are they here and together? What’s the relationship, boyfriend, brother? the awkward closeness of his posture kind of kills that idea.
I feel a bit worried for her. What would I really do or say though. Nothing. He is not overly agressive or violent. No shouting or physical harm. Just constant words. Volley after volley. Non-stop.
Dominating her and the small space she has occupied in that open shelter.
Found myself wanting to do something, but unsure what. This played out image of the hero to the rescue. I dont know the situation or whats going on. Am I being overly nosey? Butting in where I am not welcome or needed? But what if the reality of the situation is much worse than just words.
Over the bridge the top of the bus pops. The shuttle home. Thankfully.
I didn’t save the day, if there even was a day to be saved. I only watched and gave a look before boarding the bus.
I could have asked the time though and ended that barrage, at least for a moment.
This is scary stuff.
Its not really.
What is happening is my mind is racing between hundreds of mini-tvs all show varying negative consequences to my failed writings and ramblings.
Lets switch that off and walk at a gentle pace before we jump into full blown action.
The hero never solves the mystery, diffuses the bomb or grabs the girl at the beginning of the movie.
But what if he did? What if suddenly he stopped all the drama. Then we watched a meandering tale of what happens next.
The ongoingness of life. Got to remember life trudges, runs, splutters by, leaps here, there and everywhere.
The end of films, TV series and episodes creates a feeling of finality more often than not and that is not how things really are.
The gap between fictional stories and real life is most keenly felt in this difference in finality. Our heroes and icons do not need food, or the loo. I need the loo and I need food. I need sleep. Loads of it and I would like a whole lot more actually so if you could sort that out you’d be doing me a massive favour.
The blurring of real and imagined life is a crazy concept. We can tell ourselves all manner of things and live in all manner of ways. Invent stories, plot lines, characters, scenarios and interpret the world around us how ever we see fit. Most likely though it is in way we actually cannot control. We simply react to how we have genetically been inscribed, how we have been taught and how we have learnt from habit to react.
We can live out our mini fictions, but unlike the films they continue to weave, develop, repeat and play out along with our lives. They do not end so neatly.
What’s very cool is the way they are impacted from both sides. Like two hands from working from opposite sides on a lump of clay. The external and internal forces that shape and govern the end product. They talk to each other these hands, work with and against each other, in tandem and out of sync.
Are you deemed mentally insane if the left hand is too dominant? If It develops and moulds the story too much? If it runs away with the story and cannot be reined in by the right?
Lets get messy.
GO is a Japanese strategy game utterly different from other board games. The rules are simple (surround the opponents pieces and capture territory), but to master the game you need to zen out a little, sometimes even using intuition. An early move early can radically affect whether you win or you lose 100 moves later. Simulating the game is computationally ridiculous - a computer cannot beat a human yet. I shan’t say I’m good at Go. I’d be lying.
This was (yet another) gift for Dad. I was inspired to make carvings like the wood panels as I remember from the Kwangtang Palace, a Chinese restaurant in Sydney (long since closed). Circles as the bough and leaf in trees. I love the fancy nightingale I made on one side of the board. The other side is a little minimal, but then it is meant to be. One side is the mystery of the night, the other the harsh day. The carving is highlighted by a dark stain.
Initially, the marbles were green and gold. It was pretty. But my colour-blind father couldn’t play me… I was consistently winning at *seeing*. Given that my superhuman power of being able to tell one colour from the other gave me an unfair advantage, I spray painted the marbles to give the game a classic black-and-white style.
It is hard to know where to start. Part of me is way too self conscious to begin this sort of writing thing on the internet, for all eyes to see freely. Not that they would, lets not get ahead of ourselves here, these post are unlikely to be the next big thing that sets literary worlds on fire. Nevertheless it still feels daunting. I already dislike the title page and what I have written as the little preamble to this forsaken blog. But we will keep it there for now, as a reminder of where all this began.
Lets see what happens